Excellent
by TheoreticallyEva
Summary: Lee Chaolan reflects on the repercussions of being adopted into the Mishima family. Rated T for brief references to violence against children.


Disclaimer: If I owned Tekken, I would probably have focused so much on story and character development that it would have been an RPG instead of a fighting game.

* * *

For years, I thought that anything would be better than an orphanage. When Heihachi Mishima adopted me, I was incredibly excited. I already knew that his wife had died, but in my mind, a single father was better than nothing. I imagined that we would do all those father-and-son activities I had seen on TV - playing baseball, reading stories together at night, riding our bikes somewhere, spend summers at the beach, things like that. What a laughable thing to imagine now. If only I had known.

Heihachi didn't talk much on our way to Japan, but it didn't deter me. I figured he was just as nervously excited as I was and wasn't sure what to say.

When we arrived at his mansion - I could hardly believe how lucky I was to go from an orphanage to a mansion! - he showed me to my room and let me set down my one tiny piece of luggage holding everything that I owned. There was a huge, four-poster bed I could have all to myself, my own bathroom, a window with a view of a nearby lake - I was awestruck.

But he allowed me little time to absorb my surroundings. Gruffly, he told me to follow him.

He led me to a gym wherein stood a young boy who was about my age. Heihachi introduced him to me as his biological son, Kazuya. He explained that we would be training together to become strong fighters.

"Just like the ones in the kung-fu movies?" I enthusiastically asked.

"Better than that," Heihachi grinned in a way that I now know ought to make anyone uneasy.

Kazuya was expressionless. Now that I think of it, I can't remember him ever smiling at me. That shouldn't surprise anyone, though.

Heihachi started teaching us some basic rules of combat. I'll never forget that first lesson. We were kids just barely entering the brutal world of martial arts, but he didn't go easy on us. He made us fight each other until we were both bleeding. Then he made us fight again. And again. And again.

It was fun at first, but the more we fought, the less I wanted to do it. At some point, I started to cry and pleaded with Heihachi to let us stop. He kicked my head so hard that I skidded across the floor.

But it was a small price to pay, I thought. It was a small price to pay for being someone's son, for belonging somewhere.

Every day, Kazuya and I were made to train rigorously together. Every day, I gave our fights everything that I had. Every day, both Kazuya and I improved, and we were soon fighting each other to draws. Then we got to the point where we were beating each other an even number of times every day. We rarely spoke outside of the gym because Kazuya preferred to keep to himself, but I didn't mind too much. After all, I had friends back the orphanage. What I didn't have was a father. And every day, after Kazuya and I had beaten each other to a pulp, I anxiously hoped for Heihachi's approval. I waited for the day that he declare that I had done well, and then we would play baseball together, read stories at night, ride our bikes somewhere, go to the beach. I waited for the day when he would smile, pull me into his lap, give me a good, long hug, and tell me that he loved me.

But it never happened.

As the months passed, I gradually realized that I was only a tool to Heihachi, a motivation to make Kazuya work harder so that he wouldn't be beaten. He was tough on Kazuya everywhere, all the time. But outside of the gym, he almost completely ignored me. Even when I started showing proficiency in the hard sciences and created small robots to show to him, Heihachi only sneered and said that robots would do no one any good if I was a weakling. That was it. I only mattered during the training sessions.

The disappointment came slowly but heavily, so heavily that it sometimes felt like I could hardly breathe. The luxuries of the mansion lost their magic. The thrill of finally, finally being adopted turned cold. I began longing for my old life, with kids who were my friends, with my nightly dreams of being part of a family - dreams that were so much better than what my reality had turned out to be. I lied in my letters to my friends back at the orphanage, saying that I was having an amazing time and that I hoped that they would all get adopted by someone, too. Secretly, I envied them for being able to continue to dream of something better.

My coping mechanism ended up manifesting itself as a tendency to be the class clown. I excelled in every subject in school, but more than anything, I had a reputation for being a quirky goof. As long as I was making people laugh, nobody asked questions I couldn't bring myself to answer.

During the first King of Iron Fist tournament, I met the fighter called King. We were not matched up against each other at the time; we had simply happened to cross paths one day and started talking. As the adopted son of one of the wealthiest men in the world, I had the privilege of attending a top-notch school and had managed to learn enough Spanish to hold up a basic conversation with King. He told me about the orphanage he ran, how he wanted to win money to help the children, how he wished for them to find homes - to be adopted.

I laughed and said that maybe they were better off where they were.

He didn't really appreciate that, but I simply amended my comment by adding that he was probably the best father figure they could ever hope to have, and then I left it at that.

I was later saddened to hear of his passing. No doubt the children he helped raise felt the loss keenly.

Anyway, now I hear that my adopted nephew is trying to wage war with the world. I thought he was different from his father and grandfather. Now I'm not so sure. But who am I to judge? I'm not seeking world domination, but I'm far from a saint myself. Behind my playful mask is a dangerous man itching for vengeance for having to feel my childhood dreams being slowly choked and crushed to death by the Mishima family - only one of the many dreams that they would destroy in their cursed lives.

I see him now - Kazuya. He hasn't noticed me yet, but he will. Just like the little boy I met in the gym, he's constantly ready for a fight, and he won't be able to resist one with the person his father handpicked to be his rival. As children, I forced him to prove his worth to a tyrannical father who was never appeased, and although I know it's irrational, I regard my adopted brother as the one who stole my worth from me. Perhaps there is some part of me that still believes that if I can be better than Kazuya, I will be accepted at last. By Heihachi. By anyone.

Aha, he has sensed me. He turns. Recognition subtly ripples across his face. He's coming toward me.

I smile.

Excellent.


End file.
